


Mir Renan

by Isseya Damir (Nymeria_Lavellan)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Dalish Elves, Dragon Age II Spoilers, Dragon Age: Origins Spoilers, Elf/Human Relationship(s), F/M, Kirkwall (Dragon Age), Post-Dragon Age: Origins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-06-28 22:44:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15716619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nymeria_Lavellan/pseuds/Isseya%20Damir
Summary: A project that started out as an exercise in character backstory and kept growing.In 9:36 Dragon, a Dalish elf arrives in Kirkwall with a traveling show, seeking survivors of her massacred clan.  Instead she finds Lyanna Hawke and company, and ends up with a front-row seat to the Kirkwall Rebellion.  Will she find her lost family?  Will she ever meet the tall, dark, handsome stranger promised by that palm-reader?  Will she ever learn the true meaning of Satinalia?  Even I'm not remotely certain at this point...





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a persistent editor who can't leave well enough alone, so posting is my attempt at slapping my hand away so that it can get on with actually setting words one in front of the next, but it's entirely possible that re-writing might occur.

“Can I ask? What happened to you, after...?”

“After Kirkwall?”

She nodded somewhat reluctantly, as though her own curiosity hadn’t raised the subject. I considered briefly.

 

_(tousled hair against my pillow)_

_(golden flashes of sunlight)_

_(a canopy of leaves)_

_(blood in the snow)_

_(bite down)_

_  
_

“It was - ”

 

_(rocks falling from the sky)_

_(metal biting into my skin)_

_(take my hand)_

_(bite down isa)_

_  
_

I cleared my throat.

 

_(golden hair against my pillow)_

_(blood in the snow)_

_(dark eyes across a room)_

_(isa bite down)_

_(ir abelas)_

_  
_

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…”

I shook my head and reached instinctively to touch her hand in reassurance. “I was lucky. Lots of people weren’t.”

She nodded somberly. “I understand that.” She struggled to her feet, pressed her arched hands into the small of her back and groaned. “I suppose I’ll have another dozen name suggestions to veto before I get any rest tonight.” She smiled wryly. “Aren’t you going to throw one in the hat?”

I laughed, about to demur, but instead I heard myself say, “Thalia.”

“Thalia,” she repeated, trying the fit of the syllables in her mouth. “I like it. It’s not Dalish?”

“No, uh, Rivaini, I think.”

“Huh.” The flat of her palm made distracted circles against her back as she considered.

Distantly I could hear the steady pulse of a drum, setting time. The lively sound of a fiddle struck up and I caught myself beginning to sway in time.

With an affectionate but weary sigh, she looked out across the yard to the lights of the tavern. “There goes my early night.”

“Do you want me to tell them to knock it off?” I suggested, only half-joking.

She smiled and shook her head. “Let them have their fun.” She turned to leave and I let my attention drift back towards the tavern, allowing myself the slightest shift from side to side with the rhythm. “Forgive me, but don’t stay out too late, will you?” she cautioned from the doorway. “It’s starting to get colder.”

 

_(forgive me miss)_

_  
_

“Yes,” I agreed absently. “Good night.”

I drew my knees up and rested my chin upon them, my eyes drawn to the flickering shadows cast across the yard in the golden light spilling from the tavern’s door and windows.

 

_(take my hand)_

_(rocks falling from the sky)_

_  
_

I could barely hear the fiddle any more for the raucous voices

_(the beat of the drum)_

and the pounding of feet on floorboards.

_(pulsing)_

Somewhere, buried in the dins and silences of life, there was always a beat,

_(driving)_

keeping time as the seconds bled together.

_(changing)_

Eventually, all songs come to an end. But first, there has to be a beginning.


	2. PART I: KIRKWALL - Chapter One

 

** 9:36 (Dragon Age) **

The hem of my skirts swirled around my knees, the patchwork of colours blurred by speed. The world around me had narrowed to the pulsing of the drum, the balls of my feet striking the cold stone in time.

_One, two, three…_

On the fourth beat I launched myself skyward, the weight of my skirts and jewelled scarves dragging at me, tethering me to the ground. My heart soared in my throat, my head thrown back, my eyes fixed on the starry sky.

_I’m flying…_

Firm hands caught my waist, drawing my body close, pulling me back to the earth. I felt the slightest shift in balance, then was thrust skyward again, untethered, my arms spread wide as the metronome in my mind ticked steadily on. As I plummeted towards the ground again, I felt Mikko’s arms close around my thighs and my muscles tensed, holding my body perfectly still. We span once, twice and overhead the stars whirled, filling my eyes with silvery streaks. On the third rotation, I felt the lightest tap against my knee, my cue to be prepared. With the precision born of practise, Mikko propelled me up and backwards. I snapped my knees up to my chest as I tucked into the backflip, my eyes tightly closed. I had no idea how close the inner circle of the crowd was and had to trust that Mikko had carefully judged how much room I needed to perform the manoeuvre. I twisted in the air, barely hearing the scattered gasps and murmurs of the watching audience and extended my arms. My fingers brushed the ground and as my palms slid into position, I took my weight on the heel of my hands, pushing off for a final tumble through the air before landing neatly on my feet in a low crouch. The jewels sewn to my costume jingled as I snapped my arms up in a flourish of scarves and performed an elaborate curtsy as the final notes of the lute rang out.

There was little applause as the crowd began to disperse to their business, but the shuffle of feet and mutter of voices was punctuated by the occasional clink of coins grudgingly thrown into the upturned hat that marked the front of our ‘stage.’ I had to admit it, Adelaide had been right that the cities were where the money was. The tiny villages that we often performed in as we passed through might yield a small sack of carrots or potatoes, a meal or, rarely, a bed for the night. Our occasional performances at noble summer estates meant that Addy would be handed a small bag of coins at the end of the evening, usually spent soon after on repairing costumes and tents, or buying a long sought-after new instrument. Garick always suggested putting the hat out anyway, arguing that if even _half_ the guests put a few silvers in we’d end up with double the pay but Adelaide would just lift a delicate eyebrow and say, “Nobles don’t tip when a service has been paid for.”

When she had told us that Kirkwall would be our next stop, I had expected that we would perform in the Hightown market place, not outside a run down tavern in one of the poorer parts of the city.  It could have been worse, though.  We could have been performing in the alienage, where elves were segregated away from the eyes of humans.  I had heard that there were even Ferelden refugees crammed into the sewers below Kirkwall and compared to that, even the alienage would have seemed an improvement.  However, it had to be said that blocking entry to the tavern had definitely helped us get paid.  A dwarf, with an enormous crossbow strapped across his back, dropped a sovereign into the hat as he passed by, flanked by three humans.  One of the humans, a woman with the lightly bronzed skin and dark hair of a Rivaini, turned her gaze on to Mikko, her full lips curving in a seductive smile.  I hastily shook out one of my scarves, hiding my grin.  Mikko had drawn the attention of almost every woman that had ever seen him dance, but no matter how seductive she might be, he had never returned their affection.  I had initially suspected that he had eyes for one woman alone, but had eventually realised that his attention, and affection, lay elsewhere entirely. 

In fact, I noticed his pale blue eyes had spotted someone of interest in the small group that were now pushing their way past our musicians to reach the tavern door.  Tall, blond and slenderly built under his robes, he was sandwiched between the Rivani and a woman whose long red hair was only a couple of shades lighter than my own.  From the easy way his hand rested on the waist of the red-head,  I guessed that he probably wouldn’t return Mikko’s interest, if he even noticed it.  Mikko had paused stooped over, one hand extended to pick up the hat.  His gaze tracked the foursome all the way to the door before I caught his eye.  I lifted one eyebrow, tipping my head curiously, and he flushed brightly, snatching up the hat and spinning on his heel to march over to Adelaide. 

Our audience departed, I lightly touched my fingertips to the heavy makeup I wore to hide my _vallaslin_. Humans seemed to have no difficulty in entirely overlooking the elves of the cities, treating them as nothing more than useful furniture or pets, but in populated areas, the Dalish always drew attention of the worst kind. To the _shemlen_ , we were nothing but the savages of stories, more inclined to put an arrow in their throats than to shake their hands. Thieves and killers, and nothing more. It was interesting how the addition or removal of one's  _vallaslin_ could so dramatically change the way that humans saw us. My skin felt greasy and tacky, and smudges of the kohl that ringed my eyes came away on my fingers. I couldn’t wait to get out of the city and back to camp, where I could scrape it all away and let the cool night air get to my hot skin. I fanned my warm face with the fringed edge of a scarf and made my way over to Adelaide, who had taken the hat from Mikko and was counting out the night’s takings under the lantern light. She smiled thinly and tossed a spark of gold to Garick, our drummer.

“Drinks are on me tonight,” she announced and poured the remaining coins into her purse in a river of silver and copper. She drew her shawl up over her head, only her piercing eyes visible in the shadows of her face. “Don’t wait up.” She turned, tucking the purse into the bodice of her dress, and strode away into the night.

Garick flicked the coin into the air with his thumb and Mikko caught it deftly before it dropped. With a flourish he offered his arm to Rose, our lutist, and led the way into the tavern. A blast of sound washed over me, a raucous blend of music and a dozen voices raised in conversation, underscored by the rhythmic snores of a man with dirty grey hair who slouched in a chair beside the fireplace. The flames roared, logs spitting wildly in the draft that followed us over the threshold.

 

As we entered the tavern, eyes turned towards us and conversations stilled.  There was no outright hostility but Mikko, tall and lithe, was a born performer and with Rose on his arm, blonde, busty and beautiful, they commanded attention the moment they entered any room.  They crossed the floor with the graceful, effortless strides of dancers and if I hadn’t known about Rose’s injury, I never would have noticed the way she favoured her left leg.  It seemed that we passed a cursory inspection.  After casting a wary eye over us, a fresh wave of conversation and laughter washed over the sudden hush.  The noise built until it filled the belly of the tavern from wall to wall and floor to rafters.  Someone cheered and a man close to me hefted his drink in a sloppy toast, foam and thin ale pattering onto my bare arm.  I grimaced and pulled back further from the edge of the crowd.

Across the tavern, tucked away in a corner by the bar, sat the dwarf and the humans that had passed us outside.  Sitting with them was an elven woman, her dark hair interspersed with tiny braids, but it was her _vallaslin_ , heavy black lines displayed prominently on her pale skin that caught my eye.  A _Dalish_ elf in a city tavern?  I had heard that at least one of the People had been eking out a living within the city, but hadn’t expected to see any mingling so comfortably with so many humans.

Following Mikko and Rose to the bar, I tried to keep the table occupied by the Dalish elf and her companions in my peripheral vision.  I didn’t recognise her face, but it was so difficult to tell in the shifting shadows. Had she left her clan?  Had she perhaps been exiled for some reason?  She playfully slapped at the dwarf’s shoulder and laughed.  He smiled back at her affectionately, and I was startled to see such obvious warmth between them.  I hadn’t felt very close to anyone since leaving Serana behind - had thought, in fact, that a Dalish elf without their clan must be doomed to never really belong anywhere.  But the longer I watched the table, I saw that the whole group had an air of _family_ about them that I envied.

I was so mired in my thoughts and busy keeping the table in sight, that I didn’t realise that Rose had come to a stop ahead of me. I barely touched her, but she whirled towards me with a warning snarl on her glossy red lips.  
_“Isa,”_ she hissed, stretching out my name. _Eeee-sssah!_   “Watch where you’re going.” She turned away without waiting for my apology and I glanced up at Mikko, chagrined. He lifted his eyebrows sympathetically and shrugged. Rose was not the easiest person to live with and I had, technically, taken her place as lead dancer. Some bitterness was, apparently, expected. I dropped back alongside Garick, lowering my gaze to the smatterings of damp sawdust that covered the wooden floorboards and let my hair swing in front of my face.

The Hanged Man sat somewhere in the middle of my personal sliding-scale of taverns.  Not as run down or filthy as some of the small village inns we had passed through and certainly not as pleasant as the parlour we had once visited in Orlais, as guests of some minor Duke.  Adelaide seemed to have a contact in every corner of Thedas and her reputation as an entertainer always seemed to precede her, even if she did precious little entertaining herself.  Although the performers in her troop changed periodically, Adelaide’s ability to find talented, and often desperate, performers ensured that we rarely lacked for somewhere to play, even if we were busking on a street corner.    It was an unpredictable living but it wasn’t boring, and it had the benefit of keeping me moving from town to town and city to city, travelling through backwater villages and farmland, where a coin might grease a few palms and a few questions might bring me closer to answers. 

 

The barman’s eyes narrowed as Garick sidestepped Mikko and Rose and set the sovereign on the bar, but the sight of gold must have assured him that we were no worse than his usual clientele.

“Six ales,” Garrick instructed. The barman reached for the coin and I saw Garick grimace, probably tamping down the urge to insist we all turned out our pockets for coppers or to remind the barman that there would be change due. He loathed to pay with gold if he could help it.

The barman set down a cluster of mugs and a jug of ale, then tumbled the change on the scarred bar top. Garick swore under his breath and swiped the coins into his palm; I could almost hear him totting up the total as they fell. He deposited the coins into the pouch on his belt, then glanced up over my shoulder, with an irritated shake of his head. Mikko, Rose and the jug had gone. Grumbling, Garick fished out two coppers and tucked them into my hand.

“Stay here; keep an eye out for Luisa and Vel. I’ll see if they’ve actually found somewhere to sit.”

Before I could complain, the dwarf had been swallowed by the crush of bodies. I wondered how likely it was that he would find his way out again.

I ordered another drink and by the time it had arrived, one of the stools at the corner of the bar had been vacated. I dropped onto it, thankfully, and turned my back on the roar of the crowd. Periodically, I would hear voices soaring above the din, often followed by laughter.

“In the _Bone Pit?”_   The speaker reeled back against my stool and grabbed my shoulder to steady himself. I twisted on impulse and got a nose-full of sour breath as he righted himself. His friend clapped him on the shoulder and they staggered back into range of some tall tale.

“Right in the middle of the bastard mine!” someone confirmed from somewhere within the huddle of the crowd, earning a full-throated cheer that rang to the rafters. My elbows settled on the bar and I sank my hands into my curls, propping my head over my drink. _Creators, I’m too tired for this._

We had arrived at Kirkwall just before the midday sun, after a long two-day walk from Kaiten. Luisa, unable to keep up with the pace of the pony, had been settled among the instruments and canvases like a beggar queen. Not even Rose, limping badly by the time we had arrived, had the heart to make the kid walk for a spell. After we had found a suitable place outside of the city to make camp, Adelaide had presided over the stew and our last rehearsal before the evening’s performance. Now, my legs ached and my shoulders felt tight with knots.

I watched the door for a while, half-expecting to see Vel’s silver head and Luisa’s mousy one creep in, although I thought it more likely that they had slipped back to camp. I sipped at my ale, watery and tasteless. Occasionally I turned to watch the crowd heave and surge like the sea; their words dashing over me, meaningless as salt spray. Mostly, I watched the barman work, reaching for mugs, filling jugs at the kegs beside him, serving an endless flow of people that gathered around the bar to bellow at one another and refresh their drinks. Eventually, I felt my chin begin to drop and I let my eyes fall closed.

 

“Ah… forgive me, miss, but you appear to be… melting?”

My head jerked up sharply, the back of my hand connecting with my mug. The remains of my drink washed over the scarred wood and trickled to the floor, darkening the sawdust there a little more. I felt the flush rise out of my cleavage until I was certain my hot face must match the shade of my hair.

“Oh, Creators, I’m sorry!” I span on my stool, so convinced that I would see spatters of ale all over the boots and clothes of the man standing beside me that, for a moment, I couldn’t lift my eyes higher than his belt buckle. I bit my bottom lip, realising I had come within a hair’s breadth of burying my face in a stranger’s groin, then twisted my lips together apologetically and lifted my gaze slowly to his face.

It was the man I had seen outside, the one Mikko had noticed. His blond hair was pulled back from his face, curling around his ears and brushing the grey feathers that decorated his shoulders. His eyes were bright with mirth but there was a slightly strained quality to his smile, as if he recognised the ridiculous and slightly suggestive tableau we made and wasn’t sure whether to comment on it.

“No harm done,” he chuckled, then cleared his throat forcefully. “Uh.” He gestured to the line of his jaw, where dark gold stubble dusted his skin. “You have… umm…”

I pressed my palm against my face and when I brought my hand away, I saw a thick streak of makeup.

“Oh!” Relief coloured my voice. I had half expected to find blood or, perhaps, something green. I moved to swipe the mark away on my skirt, thought better of it and craned my head along the bar, hoping for a rag. The barman looked back at me from the other end and silently lifted a mug, expectantly.

“No!” I called over the din. “Well, yes. But I need…” I tried to mime wiping my hands. The barman’s head cocked to one side, incomprehension in his expression, and lifted the mug again more emphatically.

“Here.” A hand thrust over my shoulder, grasping a swatch of clean but worn fabric. I took it and tried to check surreptitiously that it hadn’t been recently used as a handkerchief. It appeared safe enough, so I wiped my palm and turned to hand the cloth back.

He eyed me for a moment, as if debating how I might react, then reached for my chin, taking hold of my face in a familiar way that made me draw back against the bar.

“I won’t hurt you,” he promised, plucking the rag out of my hand, and there was something in his face, something in the way his eyes smiled, that soothed me. I hadn’t seen someone’s smile so genuinely reach their eyes since -

He tipped my face towards the light and used the cloth to clean the makeup off my skin. I knew my vallaslin must already be visible if my makeup had run so badly that someone felt the need to comment on it, but still I watched his expression intently as he worked, wondering if I would see the moment he realised I was Dalish.

 _Silly creature,_ an inner voice chided and I belatedly remembered that he had been sitting with a Dalish elf. Evidently, I was not the first of my kind that he’d come across.

He smoothed the cloth down my cheek, over my chin and then across my forehead. My scalp prickled at the precision of his ministrations and I felt my tired muscles slowly start to unknot. As the rag slid down my other cheek and swooped under the shelf of my jaw, my neck arched involuntarily and I bit down on my lower lip. _Fenedhis_ , had it really been so long that the smallest of tactile contact felt deeply intimate? Mikko touched me every damn day without eliciting any suggestive response.

Finally, the cloth swooped down the length of my nose from bridge to tip and with a little flourish, he stepped back to scrutinise his work.

“I expect there are probably some more freckles under there, somewhere, but you’re no longer… melting.”

We both jumped as the barman clapped down a foursome of mugs and a pitcher of mead on the bar behind me, before he clomped back to the burgeoning crowd at the other end of the bar.

“Thank you.” I reached for the soiled cloth. “Let me wash that. I promise I’ll return it.”He let me take it without comment and poured mead into one of the mugs.

“For your spilled one,” he offered, one corner of his mouth lifting in a crooked smile. He gathered up the remaining mugs and pressed back into the crowd.

“Wait!” I called, sliding to the ground and taking a step into the throng after him. “How will I find you?”

Two women standing near to me turned, and slowly looked me up and down, then turned to one another and cackled shrilly into each other’s faces. The crowd heaved and parted briefly as the man shouldered his way through, holding the jug high.

“I’m here most evenings!” he yelled back cheerfully, the jug sloshing dangerously close to spilling as a bald and wizened man pushed his way unsteadily out of the crush and made for the door. “Ask for Hawke!”

“Hawk?” I shouted back, confused.

 _“Hawke!”_ the crowd echoed, with a spontaneous cheer. Distantly over the roar, I heard a woman’s bright laughter.

 

A rush of wind moaned across the warm tavern as the old man let himself out onto the darkened street. The musicians fell silent for a moment before the drummer began a slow, pulsing beat. Unbidden, my foot tapped lightly in the sawdust and the fingers holding the makeup smeared cloth snapped, making the fabric flutter like one of my sheer scarves. Catching myself, I balled the rag into my fist and turned back to my stool to find that it had been commandeered by a hard-looking man with a long, pink scar twisting a knotted path from ear to nose. I reached out and caught my mead as he pushed the mug aside.

”Corff! Beer!” he demanded, giving me a dirty look. I wasn’t sure if it were my ears and _vallaslin_ or my choice of drink that earned me his scorn.

Cradling the mug in my hands, I took a hasty step away from the stool and looked uncertainly around the busy room. Periodically I would catch sight of Rose’s profile or Mikko’s tousled dark hair, but then the shadows would shift again, revealing only the faces of strangers. I sipped the mead occasionally, trying to look perfectly at ease and likely failing.

Through the vacillating mass of bodies, I saw a staircase at the far end of the room, a regular stream of patrons moving up and down it. Perhaps the others had gone up there but at the very least, I could survey the room from the top step. Feeling like a fish fighting its way upstream, I started making my way towards it. The crowd around me seemed to be deliberately hindering my approach. Booted soles stamped down on my bare toes, careless elbows and hands struck my ribs and arms. I cried out when fingers clamped roughly around a lock of my hair and a soft, doughy face, as lined and wrinkled as a crumpled sheet of paper, materialised so close to me that I reeled backwards. The liver-spotted net of wrinkles around its lipless mouth shivered and began to part, revealing a single dark, pulpy tooth.

Something grabbed my arm and I screamed, the sound all but lost in the din. I lost my grip on my mead and the mug disappeared into the shadowy forest of boots, skirts and feet. The creased face receded on the tide of revellers and vanished. Two bodies beside me parted and Garick’s dark head appeared, his brown eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring.

 _“There_ you are!” he bellowed and his fingers slid from my elbow to my wrist, tightening firmly as he tried to tow me back across the tavern. My foot caught the wooden mug and I felt sticky sawdust squish under my toes. Tightening my grip on the scrap of cloth that I somehow still held balled in my fist, I pushed after Garick. Before I knew it, we were standing on the edge of the crowd, the heat of the fireplace against my face. Garick released my wrist and left me to scramble after him around the newest influx of patrons.

 

The door swung closed behind me, muffling the clamor of voices and the beat of the music.

“Thought you’d already gone on ahead.” Garick barely paused for me to catch up. Despite his short stature, a lifetime of keeping up with the long-legged stride of humans had given the dwarf a fast, rolling gait. I grimaced and shook my foot as I hurried to match his pace, trying to dislodge some of the dirt and wood-shavings that clung to my instep.

“I was at the bar,” I explained. “I didn’t see you all leave.”

“Too loud,” he said shortly, and shook his head. “Something about a dragon and some kind of bird… I dunno.”

“A hawk?” I asked, surprised, remembering the way the blond man’s smile had reached his eyes.

“Could’ve been.” He shrugged bodily. “Dunno, dun’ care.”

Two guards stood beside the gate that would funnel us out of Kirkwall and beneath the looming bulk of Sundermount. In the torchlight, their faces were too shadowed to make out their features but I felt both of them eye us suspiciously. Perhaps if we were trying to enter the city instead of leaving it, they would have offered some resistance. As it was, we passed them by and stepped under the enormous archway. Glancing upwards, I thought I could see the spikes of the portcullis above my head, ready to come crashing down and seal the savage elf out of the city.

Our camp had been set up a short walk from the gates, at the base of the mountain, sheltered by a ragged semicircle of trees and brambles. Adelaide’s greying bell tent seemed to glow in the gloom, towering over our small collection of A-frame tents. The campfire had already burned down to embers and Mikko’s was the only shadowy form still sitting beside it, leaning against a fallen log that had been rolled over as a bench.

“You found her,” he cheered quietly, drunk but still mindful of those who slept. He tipped up his cup, draining it, and reached unsteadily for a wineskin.  Garick settled down across the fire from him and poured water from a jug.

“Still in that pit of a pub, daft gal,” he grumbled. I kicked another curl of sawdust free. “Wash up and go to bed,” the dwarf advised and took a deep drink from his cup. “Early rehearsal again.”

Soft footsteps scuffed the dirt on the path. “Good advice,” Adelaide agreed as she approached. She lowered her hood and shook out her curls, then surveyed her performers with her arms folded over her ample bosom. “You all smell like an ale-house.” I followed her gaze as she glanced down at my dirty feet and realised that mead had soaked the hem of my skirt, the stain dark in the half-light. She sighed theatrically. “Isa, I _do_ wish you would take better care of the things you are given.”

She swept past us without a backward glance and disappeared into the depths of her tent. A thousand barbed comments rose in my mind but I reluctantly swallowed them back. The satisfaction of a retort wouldn’t be worth Addy’s ire. Instead, I bade my companions good night and set off for the stream that flowed nearby. In the darkness I unwound my scarves, unlaced my bodice and slipped out of my skirts, wading into the stream in my blouse and smallclothes. The water was icy and quickly numbed my toes as I quickly washed the last of the sawdust off my feet. I opened out the borrowed cloth and held it in the shallow rush of water, soaking it. I pressed the cold fabric to my face and rubbed away the makeup that remained on my skin. The chill was refreshing, and the jolt that it gave me made me think of cool autumnal mornings, just before winter sets in for the season, when each breath makes a crystalline cloud and the sounds of the forest are sharpened with frost.

I crouched low over the water and soaked the rag again, scrubbing its edges together and hoping that it would be sufficient to rinse away the caked makeup. Once I was satisfied that the cloth was no worse for wear, I waded back to the bank and pulled my skirts towards me, examining the mead-stain as closely as I could in the starlight. It was drying, stiff and tacky, so I rinsed the skirt out as well as I could until my fingers became too numb, and crept back to camp with my dry scarves draped around my neck and my damp bundle over one arm. Mikko and Garick had already doused the fire and retired, so I hung my wet skirts over a convenient guy rope and hoped the rest of the night would be mild. Crawling into the tent that I shared with Luisa, I settled onto my bedroll. There was a clean shirt in my pack but I didn’t want to wake my bunkmate with my search for it, so I piled my scarves and bodice at the foot of my bed and pulled a light blanket up to my chin.

Floating on the edge of sleep, I could hear the soporific drone of the night insects, the faint stirring of the wind in the branches above me. An owl hooted softly in the distance and a few seconds later, another called back. In my mind’s eye an owl with white wings stretched across the velvet darkness and I automatically sent up a wordless prayer to Andruil for her messenger to show me the way.

 _What kind of name is ‘Hawke’, anyway?_ I thought, rolling onto my side and resting my cheek against my hand. _A nickname? A given name?_   I yawned widely and closed my eyes, letting the familiar sounds outside lull me into a dreamless sleep.


	3. KIRKWALL: Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone that has taken the time to read, comment, leave kudos or otherwise get in touch to let me know that you liked what you've read. I was so nervous to post this story publicly and I'm so grateful for the confidence boost. I'm particularly psyched that Isa has, so far, been so well received and I just hope that I can do her character development justice as things progress. From the bottom of our hearts - ma serannas.

The sun had barely crept over the horizon when I dragged myself out of my nest of blankets. It had been a cool night but the air already felt as though today was doing to be unseasonably warm. Luisa was already gone, her bedding rolled into a tight bundle although Adelaide hadn't yet given any indication of when she planned for us to move on.  
I reached for the battered leather pack that contained most of my personal possessions. Living as we did, no one had any need for the non-essential items that cluttered most of the human domiciles that I had seen. Even the elves living in the alienage at Denerim still decorated their homes with small treasures that had been either bought, made or acquired through other means. Even among the Dalish, aravels meant that while we didn't gather quite as many possessions as those who remain steadfastly in one spot, rooted by their walls of stone or wood, we always had what we needed on hand. With seven people living out of a single cart and five tents, the members of the troupe made do with as little as possible. If we couldn't carry it, we didn't keep it.

The pack was one of the few things I still had from my days with my clan. It had belonged to Serana and she had carried within it a few personal provisions and materials that could be shown to the _shemlen_ armorer we had found in Denerim, as examples of what we could acquire and what we could create. A piece of ironbark, no larger than the palm of my hand, had remained buried at the bottom, under my spare clothes. It was a reminder of what we had been trying to do; find a way to help the clan build ties with the rest of the world. Looking at it always filled me with grief that Serana and I had failed to secure the agreement our Keeper had hoped for. I stroked my fingertips over the soft leather, wondering where the last known member of my first family was now. Was Serana happy with her new clan? Had they managed to achieve an accord with the _shemlen_ of the mountains, the Avvar, to settle a permanent Dalish enclave? Or had they, like our ancestors before them, been routed out and forced to resume their nomadic existence? I should have written. I should have tried to press Adelaide into working western-Ferelden into our schedule, although whether we truly had such a thing as a “schedule” was a mystery known to her alone.

Pushing aside my melancholy thoughts, I opened the wide mouth of the pack and dragged out a clean blue blouse, my second-best bodice and the fist-sized clay jar that contained my heavy Orlesian makeup. I hated the thick greasiness of the stuff, but with Kirkwall so close, it was worth being careful. Better to be taken for a city elf than to have the public fret that Dalish warriors were invading and send guards to run us out. I daubed quickly over my _vallaslin_ , squinting at my warped reflection in the polished lid until I was sure it was hidden.

Wriggling out of the clothes I had slept in, I dressed quickly and, holding the canvas to shield my state of half-undress, reached for the skirts I had hung on the guy rope last night. A grimace tightened my face. Still damp, but at least not sodden. It would be a little uncomfortable for a while but between my body heat and the warmth of the sun, it would dry completely before I had to perform this evening. I made a mental note to remind Adelaide, should she be in a favourable mood before we moved on from Kirkwall, that I had been promised some fabric to make at least one new skirt with. It was just unfortunate that Addy preferred the Orlesian fashions of her youth - sweeping, many layered garments that looked impressive while sedately gliding around some minor lordling’s ballroom but made for bulky, weighty snares that caught underfoot and threatened to overwhelm my partner during lifts. We had reached a grudging compromise in a wide circle skirt that fell just above my ankles over two layers of light but voluminous petticoats to “create the right shape”, topped with a brightly coloured scarf tied around my waist. After my favourite skirt, a green silk brocade, had been “accidentally” shredded from waist to hem several times while we had been performing in Ansburg six months ago, I had been left with only the patchwork and my snug hunting leathers; and, naturally, Adelaide would have found wearing the leathers herself preferable to seeing them on her dancer during a performance.

Dragging my fingers through my hair, I tried to quickly work out some of the knots before I stepped outside to the scent of breakfast frying over the campfire and the sounds of bickering that only occurs among people that you live almost every moment of your life with. As usual, Rose’s voice managed to be the loudest and most irate.

“There’s nothing _wrong_ with the tempo,” she spat, her sandy eyebrows knitting angrily as she held out her plate for Garick, spooning scrambled eggs out of a blackened pan. “If _someone_ can’t get her flat feet under herself quickly enough for the lift, maybe she’s in the wrong business.”

Mikko swiped a slice of toast from her plate and leaned back against the fallen tree trunk, his head resting against her knee. “She doesn’t have flat feet, Rosie,” he said patiently. “All I said was that we could slow it down for a few rehearsals. It’s a complicated step and a fast piece. _I_ can barely get into position in time.”

  
Ah, The Step. Adelaide and Rose had decided to write a medley of Orlesian ballroom dances, throwing in a number of dramatic lifts and tumbles. The Step came as the grave and stately steps of the Allemande gave way to the speed and flourish of the Courante. I hadn’t yet managed to come up from a backflip Adelaide had insisted upon, followed by a run of _piqué_ turns, to hit my mark ready for a lift. I doubted the shape of my feet had anything to do with it but I was excessively aware of the way I walked all the way to the campfire. Vel and Luisa glanced up briefly and then returned their full attention to the tower of toast and scrambled eggs Vel was busy constructing, their heads bent close together. Although there were at least six or seven years between them, Vel rarely spoke to anyone but Luisa. I had always wondered if they might be siblings, despite their very different features, but it had never been mentioned and I hadn’t asked. No one in the troupe ever really talked about what their lives were before, and only Mikko had ever asked any questions about my own.

Rose lifted an eyebrow and offered me a sincere smile that warred with the self-satisfied glee in her eyes.  
“I’m not surprised you overslept,” she said solicitously, pouring fragrant tea into her mug. “I heard you were so deep in your cups last night that Garick had to physically pry you out of that pub and bring you back.”

“Rosie,” Mikko sighed in an indulgent tone that always set my teeth on edge. “It’s too early to pick fights.” He took the battered teapot out of her hand and checked an empty cup for insects.

“Anyway, her ladyship’s away already,” Garick told me, pushing a plate of eggs and only-slightly-blackened toast towards me. “So rehearsal’s postponed.”

“And _I_ still think we need to go over this piece,” Rose insisted. “We can’t perform it until everyone knows their parts.”

“We won’t be performing it tonight, will we?” Mikko interjected, gesturing with the teapot, a spurt of amber liquid flying from the spout and pattering onto the grass. “There’s no point working to the brink of exhaustion all day and ballsing up this evening’s show.” He gave her a sympathetic smile but there was ice in his pale blue eyes. “That’s how accidents happen.”

Rose’s eyes narrowed and the muscles of her jaw tightened but her gaze dropped into the depths of her tea. Garick cleared this throat and scraped noisily at the bottom of the egg pan with a spoon. I stuffed a slice of toast into my mouth to cut off the words I could already feel rising to my lips. For all we knew, Addy might not come back until we needed to get ready for this evening’s show. With rehearsals postponed, it wasn’t like there weren’t other tasks to be seen to: repairs to be made, clothes to be sewn and trading that could only be done so close to a major hub of commerce. But it also wouldn’t kill me to defer to Rose this once. She was right, I could use the practise.

I chewed slowly, hoping wholeheartedly that someone would change the subject before I could speak, swallowed and took a sip of my tea. Garick remained fixated on the pan, the spoon scratching back and forth, and Rose continued to glare at her tea. Mikko picked up a pen and turned his attention to a half-written letter. Luisa carefully spooned scrambled egg onto a pyramid of toast that crowned Vel’s breakfast tower, her dark eyes flitting anxiously from one member of the company to the next.

“We did schedule this morning for rehearsing,” I sighed.

Mikko shook his head without looking up. “Addy made the decision and I have things to do in Kirkwall.”

I shrugged. “Well, I can spare some time to go over it, if you want, Rose?”

She set down her cup so hard that it tipped over, spilling steaming tea onto the grass beside Mikko, and pushed herself to her feet.  “Don’t do me any favours,” she spat. Back stiff and chin set, she swept away to her tent.

“I tried,” I muttered, scooping egg onto my last piece of toast.

“Don’t take it personally,” Mikko advised distractedly, gesturing after Rose with his pen. “That spray of venom was meant for me.”

I leaned closer to him, curious and eager to change the subject. “Who are you writing to?”

“Friends back home.” He scrawled a signature with a flourish and tucked the pen into a leather case. Getting up, he stuffed the letter into his jacket and drained the last of his tea. “See you later.”

As Mikko strode towards the city, I stacked the abandoned plates on top of my own and tried to turn my thoughts to the chores that would fill the rest of my morning. Once Vel finished demolishing the remains of breakfast and had gone to help Garick finish the inventory of our stores, Luisa and I scrubbed the pans, plates and cups on the bank of the river. The water was no warmer than it had been last night and my fingers were red and frozen by the time we had finished, but it reminded me that I also had something to see to in Kirkwall. Although it was likely far too early to find anyone in the Hanged Man, I wasn’t sure if I would have time after this evening’s performance. And, if the blush I could feel rising up my throat was any indication, it was probably better to just hand the scrap of cloth over to the barman and tell myself I’d done my duty. As fun as it might be, there was no room in my life for a flirtation with a stranger.

I had almost finished packing the crockery back into the trunk when Garick announced that he was heading to the city’s market to restock our provisions for the next leg of our journey. Luisa and Vel hurried after him, finding the prospect of carrying everything back from the city preferable to camp chores. I settled the last plate into its place and glanced at Rose’s tent. The flap hadn’t even twitched since she had retired from breakfast but I didn’t feel like being the only target for her anger if she did come out. I darted for my own tent, gave the borrowed cloth a cursory inspection for any makeup stains and tucked it into a pouch that I quickly slipped onto my belt. I rushed after the others as fast as I could, not even pausing to fasten the tent flap behind me.

“Wait for me!” I called, throwing my cloak over my shoulders and fastening it closed at my throat. “I’m coming with you!”

Garick didn’t even slow, but Luisa glanced back, grinned and loosed a bright laugh as she took off sprinting. Vel shot me a broad smile and waved before leaping into a long-legged run. I pushed myself faster, closing one hand around my pouch to protect it and overtook Garick as first Vel and then Luisa raced past the scowls of the guards and through the gates of Kirkwall. I slowed my pace as I neared the entryway, giving Garick time to catch up to me and we passed into the city together with nothing more than a suspicious glare.

The streets of Lowtown were a maze, I realised, and I was grateful that I hadn’t attempted this journey alone. Garick navigated in short bursts, pausing at every intersection to glance around, briefly examining every possible route and then striding on, full of confidence. I gathered Luisa and Vel ahead of me, keeping a close watch on them and on the narrow-eyed locals we passed by. The Lowtown Bazaar was small but bustling, spread over two broad, parallel streets, separated by rough stone steps. Despite the watchful wariness of Kirkwall’s citizens, the stall holders were effusive in their cries as we walked by. A tall woman with pale blonde hair, dressed in a cheap imitation of Orlesian fashions shook out a length of silk as we neared.

“Antivan silk!” she brayed in a hollow, broken voice. “Finest fabrics from the length and breadth of Thedas!”

I tightened my fingers into fists, resisting the urge to reach out and touch the fabric. I wouldn’t know true Antivan silk if I were wrapped in it but I was certain that the coin Adelaide might provide for new clothes wouldn’t stretch to such finery. Lowering my gaze to the dusty stones, I hurried to keep Garick in my sight as he wove through the crowd. Resting one hand firmly on Luisa’s shoulder, I ushered Vel into an opening alongside a narrow alleyway.

Something snagged at my waist, making my belt pull tightly around my hips, and I cursed myself for being so focused on overt hostility, instead of being more cautious of stealthy pickpockets. I sidestepped, reaching for my pouch, and closed my fingers around a small, pale hand that had frozen in panic. It was a skinny boy, younger than Luisa by several years, with a shock of black hair and wide, wild eyes. He drew back towards the shadows of the alley, keening a mournful note of distress. His skin was hot and damp under my palm, unpleasant to touch and I released my grip on him with a sudden, irrational burst of revulsion. The boy scampered away as fast as his thin legs could carry him and I could still hear that thin cry over the bustle around me long after he was lost to my view.

“Stay close to Garick,” I instructed loudly, just for the reassurance of my own voice, sweeping Vel along the street ahead of me and towing Luisa in our wake. There were worse things in this city than underfed beggar-children and now my thoughts were full of them. Trying to follow the dwarf’s passage through the throng, we descended a flight of steps to the lower level of the Bazaar and finally caught up to Garick, bartering with a man for a sack of vegetables. Up ahead, through an archway and at the top of another stairway, I could see the oversized effigy that marked the tavern. My stomach made a valiant attempt at tying itself in knots but the sooner I got my own chore over with, the sooner I could be out of the city again. The sooner I could breathe again.

I reached out and gently grasped Vel’s sleeve. Deep indigo eyes looked up at me, questioningly, lips twisted anxiously, as though expecting bad news. Or, perhaps, worried that I might expect a verbal response. I didn’t need one - I only wanted to ensure that someone knew where I was. I pointed towards the inn and Vel craned to see it around a group of shoppers ascending the steps, packages clasped in their arms.

“I’m going in there,” I said. “If I’m not back before you’re done, will you tell Luisa where I am?” Vel shot me a curious glance but nodded. The silvery spikes of their short, up-swept hair swayed gently in agreement. I squeezed the pouch at my belt, checking that it was still there, and stepped into the rush of people hurrying to and fro across the Bazaar.

  
While I wasn’t surprised to find that the Hanged Man was open so early in the morning, I hadn’t expected that there would be quite so many people in the tavern. Unlike last night, voices were low and conversations somber as the patrons got on with the serious business of drinking. A barmaid wandered amid the rough board tables, filling a cup here and there, and lightly slapping away hands that ventured too close. The scent of stale bodies, stale beer and something like burned milk turned my stomach and made me long for the fresh air of the Ferelden Hinterlands. The same barman I had seen last night was methodically working his way down the bar with a cloth. His gaze remained fixed on the rough wood beneath his fingers but I could feel that his attention had settled on me the moment I had walked through the door. He waited until I reached the bar, then he picked up a tankard and began polishing it.

  
“Get you something?”

“I’m here for Hawke,” I said as I dug my fingers into my pouch. “I just wanted…”

“Upstairs,” he said, returning to his cleaning.

“I… what?”

 _“Upstairs,”_ he repeated emphatically and pointed with his cloth. “First suite.”

“Oh.”

I turned towards the bowels of the inn. Without the crowd and noise of the previous night, the room seemed smaller, as though it had borrowed space from the Fade to fit the evening’s festivities. I remembered that reaching the staircase had felt like swimming against the tide, trapped within a labyrinth of bodies. Today, with dust motes dancing in hazy sunlight from the high windows, it seemed the length of a heartbeat.

 _What are you so nervous about?_ I scolded myself as I climbed the steps. _This is what you wanted, wasn’t it? To see him again? Why else would you -_

At the top of the stairs, a long corridor turned away to my left. On the wall to my right, someone had painted a large stylized bird or dragon, wings outstretched. Directly in front of me was a large open doorway into the suite the barman had indicated, revealing a long table in front of a fireplace. The fair-haired dwarf sat at the furthest end, talking animatedly to someone across the room.

“…but when does she ever listen? I’m telling you, there’s going to be-” His words cut off as he spotted me hovering outside, and he smiled warmly. “Can I help you?”

I brandished the rag and stepped into the room, where I could see a human woman filling a wine glass. I’d seen her last night, too. Today, her long red hair was woven into a thick braid and it swung across her back as she glanced over her shoulder to look at me. I wet my lower lip and addressed the dwarf.

“I have something for Hawke, if…”

The woman came towards me, expectantly, and set her glass on the table. “I’m sorry, do I know you?” she asked.

“I was downstairs last night,” I began, “and-”

“Oh, you’re a fan!” the dwarf exclaimed and chuckled.

“I…” I was quickly getting lost in this conversation. “Is he here?”

The woman’s eyebrows lifted almost into her hairline. “He?”

I lifted my hand above my head in a vague representation of human height. “Tall, blonde, feathers…?”

“Feathers?” she repeated and pressed her lips together as if stifling a smile. “Oh. No, he’s not here.”

The dwarf spluttered a merry laugh, droplets of wine spilling from his glass as he rocked back in his chair.  Feeling foolish, I stuffed the rag back into my pouch and backed away into the wide hallway. Out of the corner of my eye, painted wings loomed over me.

“I’m sorry, I’ve clearly misunderstood. Sorry.”

“”Wait,” the dwarf called, setting down his glass.

“You don’t have to…” the woman spoke over him, and they met one another’s eyes, dissolving into laughter.  
I turned and fled, cursing whatever urge had made me come here in the first place. A few heads lifted and followed my retreat across the tavern but I didn’t slow until I was on the street and the door had closed behind me. A guard on patrol turned and regarded me suspiciously as he passed by, his hand shifting to the pommel of his sword. I forced myself to keep my eyes lowered and walk calmly as I took the flight of steps down into the next street, my shoulder blades itching until I was sure I was out of the guard’s sight.

 _At least,_ I thought as I made my way towards the market, my eyes peeled for my companions, _in a few days we’ll have left Kirkwall and I’ll never have to see any of them again._


	4. KIRKWALL: Chapter Three

The lute sang a soft, sad song in a minor key. The evening air breathed cool over my skin as I arched over Mikko’s arm, trying to feel my way through the music. The thin ribbons tied into my curls flashed white as I span, took three twisting steps back, throwing my hand up as if to protect my face from a blow and followed through with the motion, letting myself topple backwards. I tensed, hoping that he was prepared to catch me before I hit the dirt, and his hands were suddenly there on cue, ready to brace my hip and shoulder and throw me upright again. His arms circled me from behind, halting my forward motion and drawing me into a reluctant embrace as the song ended. I had two beats to orient myself and catch my breath before Garick’s drum picked up a fast pace, driving us into a limb-tangling jig. I still thought it was a sadistic song to end this half on, as I pushed my tired muscles to keep up. Mercifully, it was brief and when I caught the arch of my foot against the back of Mikko’s ankle and fell into his arms in time for the final flourish of Rose’s lute, it seemed deliberate enough not to raise anything more than Addy’s eyebrows.

  
As I tried to extricate myself and all my ribbons without knocking Mikko to the ground, a hand appeared in front of my nose. I grasped it gratefully, steadied myself and looked up into familiar eyes.  
  
“Hello again,” he said and I was struck again by the way his smile lit up his whole face. “I heard you were looking for me.”  
  
I released his hand and laughed breathlessly. “Actually, I think I was looking for _Hawke_ , but apparently that isn’t you.”  
  
“Anders.” He offered me his hand again and I shook it firmly.  
  
“Isa. Would you wait here a moment? I have something for you.” I started towards the pile of instrument bags, spare scarves and other personal effects tucked away behind Garick and Rose. Mikko was already there, nodding in time to Adelaide’s critique and sipping from the water skin. Underneath a bundle of scarves was my leather pouch, and I dug the scrap of cloth out of it.  
  
“Isseya,” Addy began when she noticed me crouching behind her.  
  
“I won’t be a second,” I replied and recalled the words the dwarf had used to describe me this morning. “I’m with a fan.” There were few things as important to Addy as a person with connections who might make a recommendation in our favour. Mikko smirked faintly as he handed me the water skin and lifted his eyebrows with feigned surprise. I remembered with a sudden burst of chagrin that Mikko had, technically, seen Anders first last night, and knew that I’d noted his interest. I shrugged guiltily, unsure what to say, when I felt a hand close around my elbow.  
  
I turned to find myself inches away from his chest and I was just grateful that, this time, I wasn’t level with his belt buckle. Anders plucked the scrap of material out of my fingers and grinned.  
  
“You have no idea how worried I was that I’d never see this, umm… torn piece of shirt again,” he teased.  
  
I curtsied expansively. “I’m pleased to be able to return it to you, ser. Thank you for your assistance.”  
  
“I was hoping to be able to render aid this evening,” he added, reaching out to lightly touch my chin, “but you don’t seem to be melting today.”  
  
“It’s only a break,” I explained. “By the end of the second half, I'm sure I’ll be a mess.”  
  
He appraised me for a moment, considering.   
  
“In that case, the gentlemanly thing would be to wait and offer assistance afterward. And maybe take you for a drink, by way of apology?”  
  
“Apology?” I took a quick sip from the water skin, hearing Rose tuning her lute with frustrated slowness. I glanced over my shoulder and saw that she was staring daggers at me. She gestured with her thumb for me to get into position and plucked a discordant run of notes.  
  
“For the misunderstanding this morning. Varric said -”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Mikko interjected softly, holding his hand out to me. “Isa?”  
  
I needed more time but I could already feel Adelaide’s impatience growing. I smiled apologetically at Anders, suddenly aware that half the people in the square were gazing at us with vague interest, and took Mikko’s hand. My heart gave a quick, anxious lurch as the waiting audience took their cue to pay attention and surged closer, forming a loose ring around us.   
  
“ _Finally_ ,” I heard Rose breathe as she began to pluck the first notes of the song.

 

Usually, when I performed, the crowd melted away until the only people in the world were Mikko and I, the music leading our steps. Now, I was distracted, overtly aware that a third person had encroached upon this sacred space. It seemed that no matter where I looked, I caught sight of eyes the colour of raw honey, watching my every move. Each time Mikko’s hands, familiar and confident, grasped my shoulders, my arms, my waist, I imagined hands I barely knew in their place and wondered whether I could trust enough that they would catch me. It had been a long time since someone had returned my attention and longer still since I’d last experienced a childish crush. Although I knew it couldn’t last - we would be leaving Kirkwall within days - I couldn’t help but wonder again if it wouldn’t be fun to indulge myself. A short couplet whispered through my mind, words I remembered from my childhood, about a Chasind woman who had bartered her own life for one night with her beloved:  
  
 _And I will be gone; with the first blush of dawn,_  
 _Li-dee, li-dee, li-oh._

My body moved by rote to the drum beat, each step precise, each movement controlled. I recognised and reacted to each of Mikko’s cues with barely a conscious thought, as the faces of the crowd swam before me. I felt myself being lifted skyward and I tumbled backward, slipping my hands into position against the flagstones for the final flip, and for a vertiginous moment, it was last night again and I was dancing outside the Hanged Man. I was almost shocked when the last chord rang out and the music was suddenly over. For a second or two, I wasn’t sure if I would have complete control of my own limbs and then the universe settled beneath my feet. There was a brief applause and a smattering of whoops from a knot of drunken young men, punctuated by the clink of coins dropping into the hat. A better take than last night, I guessed from the sounds. Addy would be pleased.  
  
As the spectators began to drift away, I saw Anders leaning against a thick stone pillar, grinning as though he’d never seen better entertainment. I bowed, laughing as he approached. He stopped almost close enough to kiss me and, just as my pulse began to thunder in my throat, he leaned past my shoulder and flicked a coin into the hat, his sleeve brushing against my bare arm. I had never kissed a _shemlen_ before, had never even imagined doing so, but, _fenedhis_ , I was imagining it now. He tipped me a wink, as though he could read my thoughts flitting across my face. I stepped back quickly, my mouth suddenly dry as cotton, self-consciously aware of the troupe preparing to leave.  
  
“I should really help with the gear,” I said, apologetically and started gathering up my spare scarves. Garick waved me off, the jewels clinking against one another as he took the scarves out of my hand and stuffed them into his drum bag.  
  
“Go on with you,” he instructed gruffly, though there was a glimmer of good humour in his eyes. “I’ll tell Addy. Don’t keep the lad waiting.”  
  
“Thank you,” I told him sincerely. I rescued one of my larger scarves from the drum bag, draped it over my shoulders and turned to Anders. “I guess I’m free, then.”  
  
I fell into step beside him as we turned from Hightown and began descending the wide steps towards Lowtown. Several of the young men from the audience darted past us, laughing together, then broke apart into pairs as they reached the bottom step, ballroom dancing to soundless music. The effect was somewhat spoiled by each of them trying to lead, but there was something eerie in the way they danced away from us into the night. It was probably nothing more than the disquieting sensation of being enclosed by the city’s walls, breathing air that felt as though it had been inhaled and exhaled by hundreds of lungs before me, tinged with the taste of soot and salt, and something that I could only consider to be despair. For all the opulence of Hightown and the busy bustle of the Bazaar this morning, something seemed to be festering in Kirkwall, drawing insects to feed on the rot.  
  
With an effort, I tried to come up with a suitable topic of conversation, anything to distract me from my thoughts. We approached a guard, armed and armored, who issued a curt nod of acknowledgement but his eyes didn’t stop for a second, seemingly taking in every detail of his surroundings. He shot me a puzzled look as we passed him by and my first, uncharitable thought was that he must be surprised to see a human and an elf walking the streets side by side, then it occurred to me that it was more likely that I was simply a new, unknown face.  
  
We turned down a side street, passing a young mother ushering her children indoors for the night. A tiny baby, swaddled tightly, slept against her chest in a wide sling.  
  
“Good evening, messere,” she called.  
  
“Hello, Liddy,” Anders replied warmly, steering me towards her. “How’s the little one?”  
  
The young woman lit up with pride and genuine happiness, moving aside the edge of the sling for him to see the baby’s sleeping face in the light that spilled from the doorway.  
  
“Perfect,” she answered, one finger tip stroking the soft curve of the baby’s cheek with reverence. “Though he’ll be squalling up a storm soon.” She laid her hand on Anders’ arm and smiled openly, as though the prospect of the cries to come were all she had ever wanted to hear. “I don’t know how to thank you.”  
  
“You don’t have to.” He smiled warmly at Liddy and touched my shoulder, guiding me back into the street. She seemed to see me for the first time and her brow creased lightly.   
  
“Good night,” she said hesitantly, stepping back onto her doorstep.  
  
“Good night,” he responded, lifting his hand from my shoulder in a backwards wave. “You know where I am if you need me.”

Curiosity burned inside me as he continued to guide me through the streets of Lowtown. At least it gave me something to think about other than the looming walls around me and the memory of the warm weight of his palm. I was just opening my mouth to form a question when he caught my wrist and drew me to a stop in a puddle of lamplight.

“It’s no good,” he sighed, mischief in his voice. “It’s been fun but can’t let you walk around like that any longer.” He reached for my chin and tipped my face towards the light. In his other hand was the rag I had just returned to him. With firm, sure strokes, he cleaned away my smeared makeup and I suddenly understood the strange looks.   
  
“Have you deliberately brought me the long way just to see reactions to my half-melted face?” I asked, feigning outrage and swatting his arm. He grinned and skipped back out of range.  
  
“It’s not as bad as last night,” he admitted with a laugh, lifting the cloth again and gently daubing under my eyes. “Although you’ve got some interesting streaks. And I _did_ want to ask after Liddy’s baby. Watching people do a double-take as you walked past was just an amusing benefit.” After a last wipe down the length of my nose, I started to pull back, still laughing, but his hands moved to cup my jaw, making me freeze in place. The laughter died in my throat and I felt a prickle of electricity course down my spine. His gaze moved slowly over my features as if he would later be asked to sketch my face from memory. At last, he smiled brightly, released me and gestured for us to be on our way.

Up ahead I could see the vast hanging effigy above the tavern’s door and wondered how the place had come by such a grisly name. A guard slowly patrolled the street, moving with the steady, easy pace that suggested a conservation of energy for the long night ahead. Her carroty hair glimmered under the torchlight and she sighed impatiently as she came to a stop at the tavern’s doorway, tapping the toe of her boot against the ground. After a moment’s deliberation, she turned and continued on her way.  
  
“Aveline?” Anders called softly. The guard paused mid-stride and span to face us, her boots scraping on the stone path.  
  
“ _There_ you are,” she hissed, striding towards us. “I’ve been halfway round the city looking for you.” She glanced at me suspiciously, her eyes briefly scanning over me, but I sensed her inventorying every visible detail. Almost immediately, she dismissed me and tugged Anders further into the shadows, leaning close and pitching her voice low. “It’s a raid. Not specifically for you, but I’d stay away tonight.”  
  
Before he could even thank her, she hurried on with her patrol. A grimace of frustration passed over Anders’ expression but he inhaled deeply and shook it off, then strode under the oversized sign and opened the tavern door. Music and voices spilled out into the street with the glow of firelight and I hesitated, remembering the thick crowd and the oppressive heat and scent of so many bodies packed under one roof. Steeling myself, I followed him inside.

There weren’t as many people in the tavern as I had expected, and there seemed to be no story this evening to draw their attention, but the noise of their conversations still seemed to echo back from the walls. Anders led me in a zig-zagging path around the patrons crowding the tables to the furthest side of the bar. I recognised the Rivaini woman leaning on the counter top, a blue kerchief tied over her dark hair, pouring ale into a mug from a pitcher.  
  
“Isabela,” Anders greeted her and she turned on her barstool, a smile on her full lips. “Would you look after Isa for a minute?”  
  
Her brown eyes lit on me and she gave me a brief once-over before she smiled warmly.  
  
“Love to. Isabela,” she introduced herself. I shook the proffered hand.  
  
“Isseya.”  
  
She pushed the jug down the bar towards Anders. “Refill?”   
  
He rolled his eyes but nodded and took the jug with him. Isabela lifted her ale and observed me over the rim of her cup.  
  
“I saw you dance last night,” she said conversationally. “Is that what you do? Travel around and dance?”  
  
“Mostly,” I agreed. “Sometimes I tell stories, too, but the dancing tends to draw a better audience.”  
  
“I’d say so. Your partner was certainly very…” she paused, her eyes misting momentarily, the tip of her tongue tapping briefly against her upper lip in thought. “Striking.”  
  
I chuckled, remembering the way she had looked at Mikko. “He’s definitely not hard on the eyes.”  
  
A pair of men sitting at the bar beside her, dressed in rough tunics and blackened breeches, drained their drinks and drifted away. She patted the stool beside hers and set her mug down.  
  
“I know we've only just met, but spill,” she instructed as I perched on the stool. “Is he your husband?” She lowered her voice and regarded me through her thick eyelashes. “ Lover?”  
  
I shook my head. “No. He’s just my dance partner.” I pressed my lips together, wondering just how interested she really was and whether it was my place to let her down. “I don’t think we’re each others’ type.”  
  
She arched an eyebrow but didn’t press me further. Instead she inclined her head down the bar. “How do you know our Anders?”  
  
“I don’t, really, I only met him last night.” I didn’t know how to explain any of it - the spilled drink, Anders taking my face in his hands as though he’d done so a thousand times before, the sentimentality I had attached to an old and ragged piece of torn shirt - without sounding trite or foolish.   
  
“Hmmm.” She sipped her ale, watching him make his order. Storm clouds gathered briefly in her eyes and cleared so quickly that I wondered if I’d imagined it. “Well, I think he clearly has a type,” she added with a wink and tugged playfully on a lock of my hair. “Redheads.”  
  
I tried to squelch the flutter in my chest and the warmth I could feel creeping into my face. Following her gaze, I saw him weaving his way back to us through the throng.  
  
“What about you?” I asked suddenly, determined to move on to a less personal subject before he joined us. “Do you live in Kirkwall?”  
  
“You could say that, though I come and go. I’m a captain,” she said proudly, then her expression turned wistful. “Although I find myself short a ship at the moment.”  
  
“Oh?” I said, politely, uncertain where to go from here. My experience with boats and the ocean was limited to a single crossing of the Waking Sea at one of its narrowest points. I had been miserable and nauseated the entire time and, if that hadn’t been bad enough, it rained so heavily that it seemed like there was as much water in the sky as there was in the sea below us. Fortunately, she waved off my enquiry.  
  
“It’s a long story.” She spun on her stool to take the jug from Anders as he approached. Clasped awkwardly in his other hand were the handles of two stout wooden tankards, brimming with mead. “I was just asking Isseya about her dancing partner,” she informed him with a grin.  
  
“Mikko,” I supplied, gratefully accepting my drink. “Thank you. He’s from Ansberg, I think.”  
  
“A Marcher,” Isabela mused. “Practically a local, then. You’ll have to bring him in with you some time.” She waved to someone across the room and slid off her stool, the jug in her hands. “We’ll be upstairs if you fancy a hand of Wicked Grace.” A few moments later, I saw her climbing the stairs beside an elven man with a shock of white hair. Isabela leaned close to say something into his ear and he took the pitcher from her as he laughed.  
  
Anders settled onto her vacated stool and gestured towards the stairs. “Do you play?”  
  
I shook my head, thinking of the abysmal game I’d played against Mikko and Garick shortly after I’d joined the troupe. They had warned me that cheating was all part of the game, unless a challenge was made, in which case the accused confessed and took a forfeit; calling someone out erroneously meant that the challenger took the forfeit. They had both palmed cards and discarded pairs with such casual ease that I hadn’t been sure if I should trust my own eyes and make the call, or if I were simply _expecting_ to see them cheat. I’d finished the game fifteen coppers short and had made breakfasts for the whole troupe for two weeks.  
  
“I’m not much of a gambler,” I admitted and sipped from my cup. “But if you want to?”  
  
“No,” he laughed. “I’m hoping Isabela has forgotten that I owe her money from our last game. No need to remind her.” He nodded towards a nearby table as its occupants got to their feet and began drunkenly navigating one another to the door. “Shall we move?”


	5. KIRKWALL: Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contains consensual comfort smut.

The night roared with music and laughter, voices rising and falling in the cacophony. The fire crackled cheerily, throwing out heat in waves that felt almost oppressive. Every time the door swung open, cool air gusted into the tavern, making the logs pop and spit glowing sparks. The place was redolent with beer and sweat, and the milky undercurrent of the thick oat mash that the men at the next table were eating.

Anders poured watered wine from a fresh jug, laughing as I finished an anecdote about the eccentricities of an Orlesian noblewoman that had engaged the troupe for a summer garden party. I joined his laughter and picked up what was left of my ale, swirling the amber liquid into a whirlpool that glittered in the lamplight.

“That’s not even the best story,” I assured him. “Remind me to tell you about Ser Florian and his performing nugs sometime.”

He spluttered, choking down his drink. “Ser Florian and his performing _nugs?”_ He eyed me curiously. “How does a Dalish elf end up dancing with street performers?”

The pleasant buzz of the alcohol evaporated in an instant, leaving every nerve ending feeling exposed and raw.

“It’s a long story,” I said dismissively and hastily swallowed the last mouthful of my drink.

He smiled and stretched his long, lean frame back in his seat. “It’s a good thing I like listening to you talk, then.”

I grimaced and tried to cover it by fussing with the scarf draped around my shoulders, unsure where to start and how much to divulge.  “Did you know the Hero of Ferelden was one of the People before she joined the Grey Wardens?” I asked, wincing at my own abrupt tone.

He nodded, his smile fading, the muscles in his jaw tightening. Apparently the recent Blight was still casting a long and painful shadow for many.

“As my Keeper told it, Nymeria Mahariel didn’t forget us after killing the archdemon and ending the Blight. She asked for land for the Dalish, somewhere we could settle, and in the immediate aftermath, the Queen was only too happy to agree. When word reached us, our Keeper decided to take us west, to the lands we’d been promised, even though they weren’t formally ours yet. She was so sure…” My throat clenched and my fingers tightened on my empty mug. “So sure that she would see a new home in her lifetime.”

His brow furrowed and he appeared about to speak, but after a brief hesitation, he simply reached across the table and laid his fingers over mine.

“The lords who believed they had a claim to the land, and those who claimed the neighbouring lands, weren’t very happy about the Queen’s offer and hired mercenaries to harass any Dalish elves who tried to stay there. We heard about them from a scouting party from another clan while we were in the Southron Hills, so we diverted to a site that we’d stayed at before with little trouble. We didn’t know that the Bann’s family had moved into a long-empty estate nearby. Our hunters would normally have avoided the estate, regardless, but one of our apprentices was separated from a his party and must have wandered too close. Hunting has been slim since the Blight and, in his haste, he shot at something he thought was a deer.”

“It wasn’t?”

I shook my head, my lips compressing into a tight line. “It was a pony. It belonged to the Bann’s daughter. The apprentice missed but the pony panicked and bolted. The girl was thrown and died of her injuries.”

I was one of those who has seen Kelder stumble into the camp, hours after a search party had been sent after him, shaking and weeping, his clothes stained with blood. He had carried the unconscious girl as far as he dared towards the estate and fled when he heard people drawing closer, calling the girl’s name.

“He took her as close as he dared and ran before they could see him.”

Anders nodded grimly. “They would have killed him if they’d caught him. Unfortunately, his own attempt to get her back to her people probably worsened her injuries,” he said softly and I was grateful to hear pity in his voice for Kelder. The apprentice had made a terrible mistake and possibly compounded it with another, but he had suffered greatly for his actions. “Was she still alive when he left?”

“She lived for another week, at the very least. By then, I was sent to Denerim with the First, trying to open trade negotiations with an armorer there. The Blight had made life difficult for everyone, poisoning the land, killing the animals we relied on, and we were struggling to get… well, everything.”

I closed my fist around the sheer fabric of my scarf, the edges of the glass gemstones biting into the palm of my hand. I wouldn’t notice until much later how close I had come to drawing blood. For now, the hurt was reassuring.  
“About a month later, the Bann’s men killed my clan.”

Anders opened his mouth mutely, but if he’d decided he didn’t want to hear the rest of this story, it was too late. The floodgates had cracked open and I wasn’t sure I could stem the tide, even as part of me tried to push it back, wanting to take back all of the words I had spoken. I felt like a child, guiltily trying to bail out the sea with a bucket.

_(I didn’t break it, Mamae - it was like that when I found it.)_

“By the time we got back, the entire clan had been… massacred. Down to the youngest child.” I shook my head as if I could dislodge the images that had been forever burned onto my memory. “They left notices nailed to all of the aravels, saying that we were guilty of murder and any elf caught in the woods would be held culpable. Serana and I gathered up what we could salvage and we spent months tracking down a clan that could take a mage. Normally, any movement between clans is done at the _Arlathvhen_ , but Serana was fortunate: we came across a small clan that were trying to settle in the Frostbacks. Their Keeper had recently died and the First promoted, but they had no Second. So they took Serana.”

“But not you?”

I shrugged as if it didn’t matter, jewels and beads clicking together with the motion. “I wasn’t quite ready to settle into a new clan. I came north, to Jader, then across the Waking Sea and into Nevarra. Hunting kept me fed and clothed but it didn’t give me enough coin for the things that I would have relied on my clan for. I know my tools well enough to keep them in good order, but I’m not trained to make arms and armor from scratch. I can make tonics, restoratives and poisons, but it took the entire clan to harvest the ingredients to make enough to sell. I was apprenticed to our clan’s storyteller for a time, so I started telling stories for coin and I found that singing and dancing draws the better-paid audiences: there’s no need to sit through an entire show to get the end of the story. I was performing in Tantervale when I met Adelaide. The troop needed a new dancer and she thought I might be exotic enough to draw bigger audiences and more coin.” I sighed and resolutely tucked the loose ends of my scarf in to my bodice to keep me from shredding the delicate fabric. “A lone elf is a dangerous thing to be in these times.”

His index finger tapped contemplatively against his lower lip. I studied the grain of the scarred and pitted tabletop as if I might read my future in it. Or perhaps find the key to closing the door on ancient business. None of the years or the miles had made any difference, after all. I was still there, amid that sickly sweet scent underscored with the putrid stench of decay that caught in my nostrils and lined the roof of my mouth.

_(But you’ll be alone. All alone.)_

My gut twisted and for a terrible moment I felt the sting of tears.

“So why all the face paint?”

Despite the churning of my stomach, the question was so unexpected that I actually snorted in startled amusement. Although, if that was his only comment on my life story, I was more than willing to let him guide the conversation into easier waters.  
“Exoticism is for the wealthy.” I gave a practiced flick to my scarves so that they billowed, hiding my face from chin to the bridge of my nose. Only my Kohl-ringed eyes were visible, framed by my vallaslin and the fall of my hair. To the onlooker, it appeared nothing more than a performer’s affectation but it gave me a valuable second to ensure my expression was appropriate, as well as helping me to make my point. “A noble man hiring a troupe to perform at his soiree can tell all his friends that he’s got a Dalish dancing girl, as if it makes him somehow daring. They’ll gossip about it and by the time the story is done, it will claim that an entire Dalish clan were there for his entertainment.” I tipped my head in the direction of the sleeper by the door. “A man barely scraping by in a city like this…”

He nodded, understanding. “He doesn’t see you and think you’re exotic.”

“No. He wonders if I might put a knife in his throat for the coppers in his purse.”

An awkward pause seemed to stretch for an eternity but when Anders stood up, his expression was thoughtful rather than uncomfortable.

“If it makes you feel any better, no one in here thinks you’re exotic.” Offering me a grin, he plucked my mug out of my fingers. “And no one thinks you’re going to murder them for a few coppers. A purse like mine right now, _that_ might be worth a murder.” He winked playfully and I couldn’t help but laugh. “But as long as I’m buying the drinks, perhaps you’ll grant me a stay of execution?”

It was late but after lingering over old memories, a drink - or three - felt like a necessity. Otherwise, I would brood over it all the way back to the camp site and, most likely, lie in my tent brooding over it some more until dawn.

“Granted,” I agreed. “For now.”

 

  
Three drinks had passed some time ago and the tavern had emptied of all but the most dedicated clientele. I couldn’t remember the last time I had laughed so much or spoken so openly to anyone. Anders had a flair for the dramatic and had told me half a dozen rumours that surrounded his friend, Hawke, and the actual stories that had inspired them. I wasn’t sure just how much was really true, but his affection for his friends was plain.

I drained the remains of my drink and squinted at the smouldering embers of the fire, my thoughts pleasantly slow and heavy.

“I should probably go,” I realised, regretfully. “We’re camped outside the city…”

“I’ll walk with you,” he said and staggered to his feet, shaking pins and needles out of one leg and clutching at the edge of the table for support.

“Are you sure you can walk that far?” I laughed. His limb back under control, he took my hand to help me up and suddenly found myself standing so close to him that I could feel the warmth of his breath on my forehead. The laughter died in my throat and my pulse began to quicken at the nearness of him and the sudden overwhelming urge to touch him, to wrap myself around him and to see if I could feel his heart racing in his chest as mine was.

“I’ll be all right,” I added, my voice barely more than a whisper. When I glanced up at his face, he was looking down at me with an intensity that left me breathless and any objections I might have held flew immediately out of my head.

“You said it yourself. It’s not safe for an elf to walk the streets alone.” His voice was low and the tone spoke to something deep inside me, sending a brief shiver zipping down my spine. Suddenly I no longer felt even vaguely tired. He hadn’t let go of my hand and I was suddenly preoccupied with how warm his fingers were around mine. In unspoken agreement, my chin tipped upwards as his lowered. I was mesmerised by the honey-gold of his eyes, the way they caught the lamplight and glittered.

The next thing I knew, we were kissing, my arms thrown around his neck as he stooped to reach me, his hands fastening around my waist. He was so much taller than I that my head was thrown back, the ends of my hair brushing, as soft as feathers, on the bare strip of flesh between my skirt and my bodice. His hands tightened, lifting me up onto the tips of my toes. My fingers slid from his neck to cradle his jaw, fascinated by the sharp burr of stubble against my skin.

“Hey!” the bartender called out, his voice cracking over the quiet. “This ain’t the Rose, you know. Have a room or go home.”

Anders looked at me speculatively. “A room or home?”

I thought about it for a moment, but the walk back to camp and a night in my tent with only Luisa’s soft snores for company was no longer appealing.

“A room, please.”

He dropped a clatter of coins onto the tabletop behind me and led me towards the stairs.

 

We were laughing breathlessly when we burst into the first unoccupied room and tumbled onto the thin straw mattress. His hands roved over every inch of my exposed skin, leaving tingling trails that spread over my body.

“How drunk are you?”

I considered his question seriously, my hands clasped behind his neck.

“Drunk enough that I don’t care how pissed Addie will be. Sober enough to still be in control of my own decisions. What about you?”

“I don’t get drunk,” he replied. His lips captured mine again, his fingers sliding slowly up from my knees to my inner thighs in a soft rustle of fabric. I gasped as a light shock crackled through my nerves and my head snapping back in combined surprise and pleasure. The sudden movement lifted my body against his for a brief second. He made a soft sound of surprise, one arm holding me close, as the other continued on its slow path. My stomach made a slow, lazy flip of excitement and anticipation, even as my hands began to wrestle with the clasps of his robes. Desire flooded my veins, drowning out my thoughts in a rush of urgent whimpers and incoherent whispers. He stopped my mouth with another kiss, his tongue parting my lips at the same moment that he slid two fingers into me. I felt my muscles clench around them, my back arching. He took his time, his thumb brushing light circles as I began to tremble.

“Anders…”

As if my desperation was contagious, he withdrew his hand and began to strip, his clothes falling to the floor as quickly as he could remove them. My hands were shaking as I unfastened the clasps and laces that closed my bodice, hearing a seam give in my haste. I fought my way free of my skirts and then he was kneeling, naked, between my bare thighs. He leaned over me, his head lowering over my breast until he could take my nipple in his mouth, his tongue and teeth moving lightly over the sensitive flesh. I snaked one hand between our bodies, closing my fist around the hard length of him. He groaned and lifted his head, shifting his weight forwards. He entered me slowly, tentatively, and then he thrust forward with an urgent cry, the unfamiliar girth and length stretching my body around him. There was a sharp moment of pain and then it was only bliss as I instinctively lifted my pelvis towards him, driving him deeper. How could it be that I had never known how sensitive these deepest parts of my body were; that I had never felt pleasure or excitement like this before?

He found his rhythm, hard and fast and gave a strangled groan. His palms slipped beneath my hips, minutely adjusting the angle, and then he was positioned perfectly to rock against me at the apex of every thrust. It was as if his body had been created specifically for my own, as though we were not truly two different races but instead two halves of a whole, destined to find one another purely to experience this moment. My breath came in short gasps as my lips moved lightly along the soft skin of his shoulder into the curve of his throat, tasting the light salt of his sweat.

“Don’t stop,” I heard my own voice beg, thick and vehement. “Anders, _tel’venavis!”_ I tightened around him, reveling in the heat of his skin pressed against mine, the power of his muscles gliding under my hands. _“Ar sumeil!”_

He chuckled low in his throat and kissed me firmly. “I have no idea what you said,” he panted against my ear. “But, Maker, it sounds sexy.” And then I was lost, pulled under by the tide of sensation and joy.

 

I awoke in darkness, every muscle aching from exertion. Something lay warm and heavy over my stomach and I gingerly rolled onto my side, wincing as my muscles protested. A low, sleepy rumble sounded beside my ear and I realised that the warm weight was an arm just as it tightened around me, reeling me into the curve of another body that pressed against my back. Short flashes of memory from the previous night filtered through the fog of sleep that shrouded my mind: laughter; the dying embers of the fire; eyes the colour of molten gold; the exquisite pleasure that had followed.   _Oh, Creators, she's going to_ kill _me._

  
“Sleep,” he muttered drowsily and planted a damp kiss below my ear. For a second I seriously considered doing as I was instructed. It would be so easy to let the warmth of his skin and the regular tide of his breath lull me back to sleep. But then I thought of Addie - of how furious she would be to find me missing at rehearsal this morning.  An hour lost was an hour that we weren’t on the streets, earning our keep.

“I have to go,” I whispered, hoping that he was too soundly asleep to hear me and carefully extracted myself from his arms. I had barely touched my feet to the floor when firm hands grasped my waist, dragging me backwards. He leaned over me, nothing more than a shadow against the darkness. Before I could stop myself, I lifted my head to kiss him and he wrapped me tightly in his arms.

“It’s still early,” he insisted, kissing me again. “Stay.”

With a soft moan of half-hearted protest, I sank back against the mattress, my arms sliding around his torso. A moment later he was sinking into me, renewing the ache in my muscles.  One of his hands moved slowly from my hip to my breast, the faintest thrum of power prickling my skin. A spark leapt in the black like a miniature flash of lightning and a thrill rushed through me.

“Sorry,” he murmured against my throat, the silk of his lips raising gooseflesh. “Did I hurt you?”

“No.” I laced my fingers through his and laid his palm flat on my hip. “Do it again?”

I could imagine the smirk on his lips as he lifted his hand and slipped it between our bodies, his fingertips leaving bright sparks wherever they touched. Each spark created a small shock that zipped through me and left my skin so sensitive that when he kneaded his fingers against my flesh, I moaned his name and felt myself begin to tremble under his touch. I adjusted my position, wrapping my calves around his waist and was rewarded by a groan that ended in a hiss of tension. I shifted again, rolling my pelvis slowly, he shifted roughly, jolting a cry from me. One hand gripped my thigh, holding me closer. I knotted my hands behind his shoulders, my nails scoring lines across his skin as the orgasm swept over me in a wave. I had barely drawn a breath before his thrusts became desperate, his tempo growing more erratic.  
  
Afterwards, breathless and spent, he gathered me into his arms and kissed me thoroughly, until my lips felt swollen and my skin tingled. With a contented sigh, he drew the blankets around us, settling us within a warm, dark cocoon. I tucked my head into the curve of his neck, my legs tangling with his. As I fell asleep, all thoughts of the troop or Adelaide had been banished from my mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this chapter written for months but have been backwards and forwards over posting it a dozen times or more. Apparently, I can confidently write love scenes when I know they're for my eyes only, but I couldn't stop editing once I'd decided it was definitely going online and I wasn't just going to skip over it. I hope it hasn't suffered too badly for that. I may, at some point, add the original version of this chapter with all of its "OMG, I really can't post that publicly!" parts intact. Possibly...


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